


if the world was ending

by ceterum



Category: The Five (TV)
Genre: (kind of), Angst, Canon-Typical themes, M/M, Missing Scene, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28115274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceterum/pseuds/ceterum
Summary: It's all falling apart.
Relationships: Karl Hatchett/Ken Howells
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2020





	if the world was ending

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unrulyangels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrulyangels/gifts).



> so here's the thing: i wanted to write something for this show way back when i watched it for the first time, but in the end i never got around to it. this yuletide i stumbled onto a fun request and it inspired me enough to give it a try.
> 
> thanks to angelsunknown for giving me an excuse to finally write something for this practically non-existent, but very much deserving fandom :)

There is a fist-sized hole in the cupboard door. 

It's not the first thing Ken sees when he comes in. That honor belongs to the surfboard, of course—the fluorescent orange really draws the eye. The board is custom-made, outrageously expensive, and completely useless—an impulse purchase from Karl's short-lived surfer phase last year. The thing never fails to make Ken smile.

Today, his smile slips at the sight of the broken cupboard. He's already stepped into Karl's flat, calling out Karl's name. The door has been left unlocked, which is unusual but not necessarily a cause for concern. The hole is less easily explained, and Ken's meagre attempt to do so—an accident? impromptu redecorating?—does nothing to quell the nagging sense that something is wrong.

Karl's been acting strange all day at work, and left early, agitated, claiming he's going to see his dad. A shit excuse, one that Ken saw right through, because Karl's been visiting his dad every day for over a year now, and he never once left work early to do so. If there was an emergency of some sort, he would've said so when Ken asked him if something was wrong, not to mention he would've accepted Ken's offer to come along. Karl's dad loves Ken—he and Ron are best mates at this point—and he knows Karl would want him there.

Unfortunately, Ken had no time to find out what was really going on because Danny was breathing down his neck, going on about how he needed the latest analysis fast-tracked, like Ken isn't on top of it and already doing it as fast as he can. Ken knows how to do his job, _thank you_.

So here Ken is now. Except Karl doesn't seem to be, not at first glance. The flat is dark and silent, even Mrs Barford from upstairs seems to not be perfecting her flamenco dance for once. Ken calls out again Karl’s name again; no response.

As he comes further into the flat, mindful not to trip over the shabby hallway rug, he realizes he was wrong. There is dim light, coming from above the stove, bathing the space in a soft, warm glow. 

And then he sees it.

Karl is sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, knees drawn up. His chest is rising and falling fast and hard, like he's just come from a run. Ken can't see his face clearly, the light casts harsh shadows from above, but he does see his hands. There is red all over them.

Ken is on the move before he even realizes it's _blood_.

"Jesus, Karl, what happened?" He doesn't wait for an explanation; he moves past Karl to grab a clean towel from the kitchen, second drawer from the top. His gaze catches on a glint—there's broken glass in the sink, and more red against stainless steel. Well, that's one question answered. Still quite a few of them left, though.

He goes back to Karl, who hasn't moved an inch. Hasn't given any indication that he's even heard Ken come in. Ken crouches down, wraps the towel around Karl's hand, and holds it there in place.

He tries again. "Karl, you're scaring me, mate. Talk to me, man, what's happening?"

Seconds tick away in silence. Ken is growing increasingly concerned. Just when he's about to reach for his phone—maybe Karl fell and hit his head, maybe he—

"It's me," Karl says, finally, his voice hoarse. Ken waits for him to elaborate. He doesn't.

Ken pulls the towel back to take a closer look at the wound; it's a shallow-enough cut along the edge of his palm, doesn't look like it requires stitches. That's good, at least.

"The missing kid," Karl says, changing the subject, then looks up at Ken like he's supposed to understand what Karl is on about. Ken's initial concussion theory seems more likely by the second.

One hand still applying pressure to the wound, Ken brings his free hand up to check the back of Karl's head for any sign of injury. He asks, more to keep Karl talking than anything else, "What kid—Jesse Wells? What about him?" He slides his hand through Karl's hair; no blood or bumps, but that doesn't mean anything.

"It's me," Karl says again, repeating himself like a broken record. Looks like they're going to the hospital after all.

Ken moves to stand up, but Karl's hand stops him. Karl's fingers are digging into his forearm. Karl's eyes are surprisingly clear as they bore into his.

"I talked to my dad. He admitted it outright. Ken, what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?" He lets out a humorless chuckle, loosens his grip on Ken's arm, but Ken still finds himself unable to move, pinned in place by Karl's pleading eyes. Ken's chest suddenly feels too tight, heartbeat picking up pace inside, a sense of dread building in his stomach, even though he doesn't understand why, his brain struggling to catch up. 

"What are you even—"

"It's me, Ken."

"Yeah, you keep saying that but—"

" _I'm_ Jesse Wells."

For a moment, Ken's convinced that he's heard Karl wrong, or that he's missed some very important piece here, something that would make this mad conversation make sense. But he's less sure of it with every passing moment. Karl's words are stuck on repeat in Ken's mind, again and again, just as they seem to echo in the silence of the flat, filling out the space, reverberating down Ken's spine, settling cold and heavy. "You're having a laugh, yeah?" Ken tries, clinging desperately onto the hope that this is some sick, cruel joke. That hope slips right through his fingers like sand, because Karl's always cracking jokes, but he's not cruel. And Ken's never seen him like this before, never this _broken_. He clearly believes he is this missing kid, this Jesse Wells bloke, a person of interest in a murder case, for God’s sake, which just makes no sense, on any level. "How would you even—"

Ken stops himself as the answer dawns on him instantly. 

The _plaster_. 

Karl was there, _Ken brought him_ there. Which could explain how the blood is Karl's, fine, but not how it's Jesse Wells's. "But— You're telling me you've been missing for twenty years?" he asks, realizing half a second too late that he's not sure he wants to know the answer. It would mean... _Jesus Christ_. He's definitely not ready to hear that story.

But Karl needs to tell it. So Ken sits down on the floor next to him and listens.

It's a convoluted, disjointed story of extramarital affairs, unclear paternity, child-murdering psychopaths, child kidnapping, brainwashing said child into forgetting his family. All Ken can think of is that this sounds like the plot of one of those B horror movies Karl loves so much. Maybe more like a hundred half-baked B horror movie plots all smashed together. But it's not fiction, it's Karl's reality, because Karl's dad _admitted_ to it all.

Ken can't imagine how that conversation went— _H_ _ey dad, quick question, did you happen to kidnap me from my real family twenty years ago?_ — _Oops, you got me, son. Now be a dear and pass me some water, would you?_

Jesus fucking Christ.

Ken takes a deep breath, pushes all the conflicted, raging feelings down. He can't be the one losing it here, that right belongs to Karl. _Jesse_. Fuck.

And that's when he realizes what this means—it's all going to come out, it's all got to come out. The plaster, the crime scene, the drinks he had that night because he's never been able to say no to Karl, not when Karl asks with those warm eyes and that challenging grin. Ken's fucked.

But he's not the one whose whole life is crashing down around him.

"Jesus, Karl. _Fuck_." He can't even imagine what Karl is feeling right now. "What are you going to do?"

Wrong question. Stupid fucking question. Karl doesn't look at him. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even further. He’s all pale and wound tight enough to snap, hands curled into fists. He looks like a man on a high ledge, desperate for something to hold onto, and all Ken wants to do is to pull him into his arms and give him exactly that.

"Hey," Ken starts, without even knowing what he's going to say, because what _do_ you say in a situation like this? He doubts there's an appropriate greetings card at Tesco.

Karl still doesn't look at him, hands shaking now.

" _Hey_." He tightens his grip on Karl's wrist, finally getting Karl to look at him, all wide-eyed and helpless and lost. His fingers move on their own, thumb sliding over the inside of Karl's wrist, skin warm and smooth, pulse racing. As the whole world crumbles around Karl, Ken finds himself ready to hold Karl up with nothing but his bare hands if he has to. "It's okay. You hear me?" It's absolutely _vital_ that Karl gets this. His throat works as he swallows hard, but his hand is still shaking under Ken's. "It's okay. We can figure this out. We _will_ figure this out. Yeah?"

Karl holds still for a moment, considering, deliberating, thoughts rapidly flicking through his eyes. Ken can't read any of them, not like he usually does with ease. It throws him off enough that he almost misses the moment Karl settles on a particular one, a determined, fiery glint suddenly in his eyes, and there it is—that low thrum of _something_ Ken never put a name to, never let himself, never dared to. It makes Ken painfully aware that he is still holding onto Karl's wrist, and his lungs start to burn, because he is holding his breath for some reason.

Karl is definitely not—his broad shoulders move as his chest expands with each breath, and he's still looking at Ken, still seems to be set on something very important, something _crucial_ , something Ken is missing, and then suddenly he's _right there_ , leaning in, coming closer, until—

At the first press of his lips against Ken's, Ken's mind goes blank.

And then it all comes rushing in—his fingers digging into the back of Ken's neck, holding on and pulling in, Ken's own hands grabbing at his shirt, heat pouring off him as he presses closer, so damn solid and _real_. Heat flares in the pit of Ken's stomach as he sinks into the kiss, into the way Karl has crushed their mouths together, into the way Karl _wants_. It's a mad, intoxicating, bruising slide of lips that makes Ken feel like he's freefalling, no net or failsafe, so dizzyingly alive. He holds on tighter, slides his hands up Karl's chest, into his ruffled hair. Karl makes a small choked-off sound in the back of his throat and it's all too much.

Karl breaks off the kiss on a gasp and rests his forehead against Ken's, eyes tightly shut, muscles tense under Ken's touch—complete contrast from the way his hands are cradling Ken's face, his fingertips running over Ken's skin so lightly it almost hurts. 

For a moment, there's nothing else, just Karl's heartbeat under Ken's palm as the two of them catch their breaths, and all Ken can think is: that _something_ now has a name.

Karl pulls away all at once and without warning—before Ken's ready, before Ken can brace himself—and then he's scrambling to his feet, can't get away fast enough. He doesn't look at Ken once, and that— _that_ —that's like a bucket of ice-cold water coming straight down on Ken, breaking him out of his Karl-induced stupor. The water is freezing and rises so quickly he has trouble getting to his feet—but he has to, because Karl is on the move, Karl is _leaving_. The water is up to his chest by the time he's on his shaky feet; Karl is already out of the room. When the front door slams shut, the water almost sweeps Ken away.

Karl is gone.

Ken stumbles back until he bumps into the kitchen counter. Grips the edge to steady himself. The silence rings in his ears, his lips tingle. He presses his fingers against them, just to make sure the sensation is real. This—he never expected _this_. He could only hope, and even that felt like too much most days.

It feels like too much right now, because Karl is gone.

This is his flat, and he is gone. What the fuck is Ken supposed to do now?

He takes a deep, only slightly shaky breath.

He is going to keep his promise. They will figure this out.

First things first, he's got dried blood on his hands. He goes to the sink and cleans them under the warm spray. Carefully disposes of the broken glass and then lets the water run until all the red is washed away. He puts on water for tea.

The kiss—he's not even going to think about the kiss. The situation was already fucked up when Ken walked into it, and that kiss only made it more complicated. It doesn't matter that Ken can still feel the ghost of Karl's breath on his lips. It doesn't matter that the skin on the back of his neck feels cold now that it's not being warmed by Karl's fingers. Karl probably regrets the whole thing. _If_ he's even thinking about it—he's got way bigger issues right now. Maybe it's just one more thing he doesn't know how to feel about. 

There's too much going on right now, too many things that need to be dealt with first. Maybe Ken gets the chance to kiss him again—properly this time, and longer for sure—or maybe the right thing to do will be to never mention it again. Maybe Ken will have lost his job by the end of tomorrow. Maybe Karl will have changed his name by the end of the week. Maybe his dad ends up in jail. Right now, it doesn't matter, _none of it_ fucking matters. Ken knows only one thing: he's not losing Karl.

He makes two cups of tea, sits down at the table, and waits for Karl to come home.


End file.
